Lakeshore Christmas

by Susan Wiggs

  “See, you’re looking at this all wrong,” Meredith pointed out as the little boy scampered off. “You’re just as popular as he is, only your fans are shorter.”

  “Gotcha.” Maureen couldn’t suppress a smile.

  “That’s another thing Hannah’s right about,” Janet said. “You’re going to be a great mother someday.”

  “Whoa, slow down. How did I go from selling cookies to imminent motherhood?”

  “Don’t you want to be a mother?”

  “Sure. I want to be a millionaire, too, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

  Maureen kept her tone light, pulling her mind away from the past. Her sisters didn’t know. No one did. She’d been strangely tempted to tell Eddie, of all people, the day of the snowshoeing. For some crazy reason, he’d felt like a best friend that day.

  “You’re too young to be so cynical,” Meredith said.

  “I’m too young to think about having kids.”

  “And you’re so good with kids,” Janet said.

  “I’m good at playing Chopin’s nocturnes, too, but I’m not ready to be a concert pianist,” Maureen said, not liking the direction of the conversation. “Why can’t anyone concede that you don’t need marriage and motherhood in order to have a fulfilling life?”

  “You absolutely can,” Janet said loyally. “Is that what you’re doing?” The look Janet and Meredith exchanged was weighted by doubts.

  “I have friends,” said Maureen. “I have my book group. A weekly game of mah-jongg and all the time I want with my nieces and nephews. I’m active in my church, and I have a subscription to the Met. There’s plenty going on in my life. I’m giving a speech at a library meeting this weekend, down on Long Island.” She didn’t dare tell them the meeting was in Seaview, the same town where Eddie Haven’s parents lived. She couldn’t help herself; she was dying to meet them. She had a feeling they were completely clueless as to why Eddie avoided them at Christmas. It would probably only take a word of explanation.

  “It’s liberating, isn’t it?” Meredith said, nibbling on a polvorone, which showered her with powdered sugar. “Knowing you don’t need a man in your life? It lets you get on with the things that are important.”

  Like cardiology, Maureen thought. That was Meredith’s passion. Meredith, the eldest of the Davenports, was wonderful, but she had her issues, too. Although they’d never talked about it directly, Meredith could never forget that she was the one who had come home sick one day years ago, bringing with her the virus that took their mother.

  “Yes, but she doesn’t want to be liberated from Eddie Haven,” Janet said.

  Joining them, Renée chimed in. “There’s something kind of sad about him, don’t you think?”

  “He doesn’t go home for Christmas,” Maureen said.

  The sisters looked appalled. “That’s horrible,” Renée said.

  “It’s…complicated.” Maureen felt a twist of pain as she thought about what Eddie had told her.

  “That’s just wrong,” Janet said. “You’ve got to do something.”

  “I tried talking to him, but he didn’t want to hear it.”

  “No, I mean do something,” Janet said.

  “Like what?” Maureen regarded her three sisters, already regretting having told them about Eddie. They all had that woman-on-a-mission gleam in their eyes.

  Eighteen

  One thing Maureen liked about winter was that it got dark so early in the day. This drove some people crazy, literally. Deprived of sunlight, they started acting weird.

  Not Maureen. She welcomed the darkness because it meant she would get to relax and start the evening that much sooner. She arrived home just as twilight descended hard. Sometimes she ran into Carolyn, the mail carrier, as her street was the last on Carolyn’s route. The building was a 1920s brownstone that housed four apartments—Mr. and Mrs. Greer, who had the distinction of being the longest-married couple in Avalon, as far as anyone knew—67 years. Then there were Chip and his partner Gordon, a different sort of couple. They were firefighters at the local station and both gourmet cooks. The third apartment was occupied by Trent and Dee, newlyweds so inseparable that people gave them a couple’s nickname—Trendy.

  Finally there was Maureen, sharing her apartment with Franklin and Eloise, who, as it happened, were also a couple. Maureen had adopted Franklin as a stray, naming him after Benjamin Franklin, founder of the first subscription library in the U.S. She felt guilty leaving him alone while she went to work, so she visited the local shelter and found an adorable gray tabby. For both Eloise and Franklin, it was love at first sight. The three of them lived quite happily in the vintage walk-up.

  Maureen wasn’t at all clever about decorating, but her place didn’t need much. It exuded old-fashioned charm all on its own. Bookcases of dark polished oak lined nearly every wall. The front window framed a view of Rotary Park and Willow Lake, and had a built-in window seat with comfy cushions. It was the cats’ favorite place in the house. They sat there for hours, shoulder to shoulder, watching out the window.

  The library had closed early today, as it did every Friday. Kids had games and swim meets to go to so there was no play practice. Maureen was happy to have the extra time. She was giving her presentation on Long Island tomorrow, and had to catch an early train. The free evening also gave her an opportunity to explore the new books she’d brought home from work. Having a whole stack of books to choose from excited her. She felt like a child with a supply of brand-new toys. She loved the deliciously indulgent feeling of having to decide which to tackle first. A dark thriller that was bound to keep her up all night? The latest Oprah pick? A memoir of a woman who had escaped a cult? A critically panned but hugely popular novel about a woman’s sexual adventures in a far-off land? They all looked enticing.

  So enticing, in fact, that Maureen decided dinner wasn’t important. She indulged in one of her favorite reading getaways—the bathtub. Her apartment was equipped with an old-fashioned claw-footed tub, extra deep. She loved to sink into a sea of frothy vanilla-scented bubbles and lose herself in a good book. She spent a luxurious hour with the Oprah book, reading a dark, emotionally wrenching story that made Maureen’s life look like a trip to Disneyland. Maybe, she speculated, that was the appeal of the quintessential Oprah pick. It gave the reader a glimpse of struggle and survival much harder than most people ever had to face. As Maureen raced through the pages, the water turned lukewarm and the bubbles disappeared, so she got out, wrapped her head in a towel and grabbed a robe. It was just 7:30, too early for bed, but she saw no point in getting dressed again, so she put on her favorite flannel pajamas—the ones with the cats on them—and her fuzzy slippers. Though she rarely resorted to pathetic frozen dinners, tonight she broke her own rule and popped a Lean Cuisine into the microwave.

  Barely looking up from the novel, she poured herself a glass of milk and retrieved the dinner from the microwave. It was some kind of pasta that had looked good to her in the grocery store, but was, upon closer inspection, just mac and cheese.

  She propped the book open on the kitchen table to keep reading while she ate, glancing up occasionally to watch the cats. They were in their usual spot in the window seat, looking adorable in a halo of bright strings of fairy lights with which Maureen had festooned the window. Next to that, she’d placed a small, living Christmas tree in a red enameled bucket, and covered it with lights and a few dainty ornaments.

  “If I was any good with the camera, I’d take your picture for my annual Christmas card,” she said to them. “It’s probably better I don’t, though, because people would die of your cuteness.”

  She sighed and picked at her food and tried to focus on the book again, but she’d hit a slow spot and her attention wandered. “I don’t know what it is with me lately,” she confessed to the cats, “but I’m just feeling so single. It seems like everybody is part of a couple. What’s up with that? Even Meredith’s dating that thoracic surgeon. The only other single I know is—�
��

  The doorbell interrupted her. Probably one of the neighbors, needing to borrow something. She opened the door, and there stood Eddie Haven.

  “Oh,” she said. It was the only sound she could manage at the moment. She just gaped like a nitwit.

  “Hey, Maureen,” he said. “Mind if I come in?”

  It wouldn’t matter if she minded, since she’d recently lost the ability to speak.

  He strode inside, looking wonderful; the cold air had whipped the color high in his cheeks and his eyes were lit with a smile. “So,” he said, “this is your place.”

  She forced herself to inventory what he was seeing—the two cats and too many books, the TV dinner in its cardboard box still on the table, next to the glass of milk and the propped-open novel.

  Finally, Eddie’s eyes came to rest on Maureen’s faded flannel pajamas, fuzzy slippers and damp, stringy hair. Every cell in her body felt as though it was melting in mortification.

  Somehow, she managed to find her voice. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Just dropped by kind of spur of the moment. I would have called first, but you probably would have told me to scram.”

  Deep breath, she told herself. It doesn’t matter what he thinks of you. Yet there was no denying what she felt—busted. He was seeing her alone in her apartment, completely unprepared for company on a Friday night. She might as well be waving a sign that read Loser.

  “What, um, what can I do for you?” she asked lamely. It was loser-speak for Please go away.

  “I’m stuck,” he said bluntly. “You’re making me rewrite that song for the pageant and I’m stuck.”

  “And you’re here because…”

  “Because I can’t give you what you want.” He handed her the CD she’d loaned him to inspire him. “If I’m going to write something, it’s got to come from somewhere else.”

  And you had to barge in here and tell me that in person? she wondered. “What do you want from me, Eddie?”

  He indicated the CD in her hand. “I listened to your kind of music. How about you listen to mine?”

  “All right,” she said, “I will.”

  “Tonight,” he added.

  “Agreed.” She waited, then picked up the CD. “Did you put it on here?”

  “I’m talking about live music.” In his exaggerated DJ voice, he said, “Live, for one night only, it’s Inner Child at the Hilltop Tavern.”

  Her last trip to the Hilltop had been uncomfortable in the extreme. She’d felt like a total misfit among the regulars—the women in their tight sweaters, the guys eased back with beers in longneck bottles. It just wasn’t her scene. What did people do in bars anyway?

  She folded her arms in front of her. “I’m busy.”

  He glanced at the propped-open book on the table, the half-eaten TV dinner. “You’re choosing a book over listening to my music? Now I’m getting a complex.”

  “It won the Orange Prize,” she pointed out.

  “Oh, in that case,” he said, full of irony. “Come on, Maureen. What are you afraid of?”

  You, she thought. Everything. But she was out of excuses, and standing here arguing would only keep him in her apartment longer, prolonging her humiliation.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Cool. We’ll probably start around nine.”

  “I can hardly wait.” She closed the door behind him, leaning against it as though to hold it shut. Then she sank slowly to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest and dropping her head, filled with humiliation. Finally, deeming the writhing unproductive, she burst into action, racing to her bedroom to find something to wear. She whipped clothes out of her closet, frustration mounting with each drab, out-of-date garment she threw onto the bed. Good grief, when was the last time she’d gone shopping? Her wardrobe was seriously boring.

  Fifteen minutes later, she stood at the front door of her friend Olivia’s house, driven there by desperation. Olivia was the most stylish person Maureen knew. She hated to disrupt the couple on a Friday night, but she was desperate. She could see Olivia and Connor through the porch window, seated across from each other at the coffee table, deep into a game of Scrabble. Connor said something to make Olivia laugh, and her eyes seemed to brim with warmth.

  Maureen hesitated as a pang hit her in a soft place, the way it sometimes did when she observed a happy couple. It wasn’t an ugly feeling, like envy. Just…a brief emptiness.

  Get over yourself, she thought. Tonight is about not being alone. She knocked at the door. Connor let her in. She greeted them with a flustered smile, then focused desperately on Olivia. “Sorry to interrupt your evening,” she said, “but I need your help.”

  “Sure, anything,” Olivia said easily. Connor took her by the hand and helped her to her feet.

  “I need a great outfit,” Maureen said.

  “Sure, I’ll get right on that,” Connor said.

  Olivia gave his arm a smack. “Smart aleck.”

  He stepped back, holding his palms out in surrender. “Okay, I’m out of here.”

  “Connor, I’m sorry,” Maureen said. “Honestly, if I could do this on my own, I would.”

  “No problem, Maureen,” he said good-naturedly, bending to place a kiss on Olivia’s cheek. “I’ll go soothe myself with a beer and a hockey game.”

  “Thanks for being a good sport,” she said, and he headed to the basement and his big-screen TV. Maureen glanced at the Scrabble board. Most of the words there were sexual in nature, or laden with innuendo.

  Noticing her startled look, Olivia gave a laugh. “Honey, I’m eight months pregnant. This is about as much sex as we’re having these days. And speaking of sex, I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you need the great outfit to impress a great guy.”

  Maureen nodded. “That, and redeem myself.” Because Olivia was her friend, she told her honestly about Eddie Haven, and about the pajamas, the cats, the TV dinner. The fuzzy slippers. “And yet I feel so shallow, trying to doll myself up to impress some guy.”

  “That’s not shallow. It means you have a healthy sense of self-esteem.” Olivia grabbed her by the arm and took her to the master bedroom. “This is going to be fun,” Olivia said, flipping on the lights in her walk-in closet. “I haven’t seen some of my clothes since I started showing.”

  Prior to moving to Avalon, Olivia had run a real estate staging business in Manhattan. Her inimitable style was also evident in her wardrobe, and before long, she’d put together an outfit of snug-fitting high-fashion jeans, an equally snug cashmere sweater and boots with stiletto heels.

  Maureen felt exposed but daring in the sweater and jeans. The boots, however, she regarded with horror. “I can’t wear those. I’ll kill myself.”

  “Nonsense. It’s just for this evening. Put them on and you can get used to them while I work on your hair and makeup. Do it. Resistance is futile. Oh, and you did bring your contacts, right?”

  “Reluctantly,” Maureen admitted.

  Olivia went to work on Maureen’s hair with the electric flat-iron and shine products. She applied an array of makeup products, taking her task as seriously as a plastic surgeon.

  “I really appreciate this,” Maureen said. She normally wasn’t much for primping, but for some reason, this felt indulgent and good.

  “It’s fun for me,” Olivia assured her. “It’s going to be even more fun for you, when you get a load of yourself.” She refused to let Maureen see herself until the look was complete. Finally, she took her by the hand and led her to the full-length mirror. “Ready?” she said. “Turn around.”

  Maureen turned. Blinked her glasses-free eyes in astonishment, and finally found her voice. “Whoa.”

  As he set up in the corner of the Hilltop Tavern, Eddie conceded that he should have called Maureen instead of showing up unannounced at her place earlier. She had looked embarrassed, although she tried not to let it show.

  What she probably hadn’t realized was that he’d fou
nd her inadvertently sexy, alone in her dimly lit apartment, fresh from the bath, smelling delicious.

  “What are you looking so happy about?” asked Ray, flipping switches on his keyboard. “You get laid, or something?”

  “Nope. Can’t a guy look happy?”

  “Not like that, not without getting laid. Who’s the girl? Come on, spill.”

  Ray was one of the few people who knew Eddie’s sentence of community service had ended a long time ago. He probably didn’t quite understand why Eddie continued to volunteer for the pageant year after year, but he never said anything. So much of friendship was just that. Keeping your mouth shut.

  So this current line of questioning was very un-Raylike. “Who is she?” he persisted.

  Eddie shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “I bet it’s that librarian, Maureen Davenport,” Bo Crutcher stated loudly, plugging in his bass.

  Ray played an ominous minor chord on his keyboard. “No way you’re banging Miss Hair-in-a-bun-librarian.”

  “It’s not like that.” Eddie couldn’t describe what it was like, because this kind of attraction had never happened to him before. “I mean, that’s where I hope it’s going.”

  “Of course you do. Every guy wants every relationship to end up there. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “You don’t—” Eddie stopped talking as a woman walked into the bar. She paused in the doorway, and for a moment, the blue-white neon of the marquis outlined her in a bright glow. She was a knockout in tight jeans and a sweater that showed off every curve, high-heeled boots and long, loose hair. The guys at the pool table forgot their game, and a few of those lined up at the bar checked her out. A sense of surprise and recognition caused Eddie’s brain to shut down.

  Ray played a riff of “Good Golly Miss Molly.”

  Eddie grabbed his water glass and took a gulp, then went to greet her. “Maureen.”

  Her ankles wobbled a little in the high-heeled boots as she lurched forward. He slid his arm around her to steady her.